Scream Hollow Novels & Stories

"A series of 'Dark-Nodes' are forming. They aren't Purists, and they aren't Architects. They’re something new—The Hollows." The Hollows were regions of the universe where the Expansion had moved too fast, leaving behind "Low-Resolution" zones where the reality was thin, grey, and hungry. They didn't have teams; they had "Eraser-Swarms" that sought to pull the vibrant, high-definition matter of the Sovereign Valley back into the void. The Call to the Rim

When her hair tumbled forward like a river of silk, there was no escaping it. The Scarlet Vampire pulled a player into her arms, and they surrendered completely, believing the NPC had fallen for them. Even after their blood was drained, a contented smile stayed on their face. Meanwhile, the Ghost Bride's presence was unmatched. With a single glance from her mournful eyes, players fell under her spell, willingly letting themselves be consumed by the ethereal folds of her white veil. Each bride shone in her own way, captivating viewers completely. "This is the true art of killing!"

The air tasted wrong—metallic and stale, like a room that hadn't been opened in a hundred years. "They're here," I said. I looked toward the entrance at the far end of the rink. Three figures stepped out . They weren't wearing hockey gear. They were wearing ragged black suits. Their skin was the color of a bruise, and their eyes were glowing with a sickly, pulsing purple light. The Hollow Ones. They didn't even howl. The first one leaped onto the ice, its claws extending six inches from its fingertips. It swiped at a defensive player, sending the boy flying into the boards with a sickening thud.

The petrification was gone, but the ghost of the stone remained, a structural stiffness in my marrow that reminded me I had outplayed a god at the cost of my own design. The air didn't smell like pine anymore. It smelled of stagnant mercury, ozone, and the sour, acidic sweat of a thousand wolves circling the ruins of their own home. Down in the courtyard, the survivors of the "Global Scream" were waking up. They weren't howlings in worship. They were clutching their heads, their eyes bloodshot, their scents a chaotic mess of trauma and betrayal. Marek of the Southern Cross was there. Silas of the Northern Crags was there.

Instead, it folds itself into a corner near the fire, curling up like an animal seeking warmth, as if it is as weary as any of us. The hours crawl. Some try to sleep, but most sit up, tense, clutching talismans or one another’s hands. Mara prowls the edges of the hall, her gaze fixed on the revenant. I sit with Ffion, our shoulders touching, our magics twining and trembling. We ask our questions—careful, cautious, afraid of what the answers might cost. “What is the Hollowing?” Bram asks, voice barely above a whisper. The revenant’s eyes burn in the dark. “It is what comes when too many bargains go unpaid. When pain and hunger are ignored, when stories are broken, when communities shatter. I

They came for you. “No,” I whispered. And they’ll kill everyone until you answer them. My chest tightened painfully. Another scream echoed outside closer this time. Lena rushed toward the window and looked out. “Oh gods…” I moved beside her carefully. The village was chaos. Hollows moved through the streets like living shadows, attacking anything in their path. Lanterns burned across the darkness while terrified villagers fled between houses. One Hollow climbed across a rooftop unnaturally fast before dragging someone screaming into the shadows. My stomach lurched violently.

What came through wasn't human. It had been, once. You could tell by the general shape and the way it moved on two legs. But everything else was weird. Its skin had turned gray and leathery, its fingers elongated into claws, and its face stretched into something with too many teeth. A Hollow. Class D anomaly that fed on fear. The crowd started cheering. The Hunter raised his sword. The Hollow circled him, making a clicking sound they made when they were hunting. I'd heard it before during deployments. It usually meant you were about to be attacked.

Selene tried to convince herself it had been her imagination. Crimson Hollow was just a sleepy little town, tucked away from the chaos she’d run from. She wasn’t supposed to be obsessing over strange men with predator’s eyes—or haunted by growls that made her body shiver instead of scream. But it followed her. In the morning fog curling against her window. In the thick, untamed scent of the woods. In the ache low in her belly that refused to fade.

Anyone would be. Then…. A crack. A sickening, sharp crack of bone shifting beneath skin. Aleron gasped. Ronan choked. More cracks followed, loud, unnatural, echoing through the clearing. Lyanna’s eyes widened as their bodies bent, twisted, reshaped. Their screams tore through the air, raw, feral, pained yet necessary. Lyanna reached for Sebastian in panic. “Papa…!” “It’s okay,” he whispered, steadying her hand. “This is normal.”

They didn’t scream when their flesh sizzled. “They’re called Hollowborn,” Damon said beside me, voice cold. “Made from dark rites. Blood and bones of traitors. Controlled by soulbinds.” I turned to him. “You’ve seen them before?” He nodded once. “When I was a slave in Dagonhold. They don’t bleed like us. And they don’t stop unless you sever the spine.” “Then we aim for the neck,” I growled. “We won’t let these bastards through the gates.”